


In medias res

by theseourbodies



Series: Epithet [2]
Category: Jurassic Park (Movies), Jurassic World (2015)
Genre: Gen, PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 15:25:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9130414
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theseourbodies/pseuds/theseourbodies
Summary: You can never go back again.





	

Owen knows he has to make himself into a more complex animal to survive. That's the entirety of the problem right there. 

The next time they try it, Claire doesn't print an itinerary, but her whites have gotten whiter despite the gentle wave she's let back into her cropped hair, and her edges are still hard and sharp. It feels good to touch her, though, to reach out and take her hand or smooth a silky sleeve. It feels like survival, something primal, like the two of them are half wild things sitting nicely in the too-nice restaurant Claire picked for the night. It feels like they made it, for real, like the island can't even touch them any more. 

He should really know better, by now.

They're far from the entrance and the windows, in one of the intimate nooks next to a huge decorative wall, unfashionably close to the kitchens. Claire just laughs brightly when he stumbles his way through a joke about it. 

"If you'd prefer that view to this one, Owen, I guess I should assume I'm doing something wrong." She says, gesturing gracefully to her face. 

Owen finds a good grin for her, one without so many teeth. She's beautiful in the deep gold light, bright in her white and her red hair. It feels like they've been through lifetimes together, but she ordered a red wine where he expected a white and a complicated sounding meat-thing where he expected a salad. He laughs with her easily and knows the feel of her hand under his, but Owen can see thay she had been surprised by his own order, too. 

They don't know anything about one another. Owen knows the intimate shape of her through all her sharp layers but all those memories are buried under the sickly fast pounding of his own heart, the drum beat fear eating at his brain stem. He kissed her once and knowingly, and she saved his life in a pair of heels just like the one's she's wearing right now. Even with all that shared sensation, that secret history, here under the dim gold lights with her clean skin gleaming, Claire feels just as far off and foreign as she had a year ago when all he knew about her was how exciting she was in her sharp clacky shoes and how aggravating she could be with her frigid stare. He wanted to undo her, then, but now he's seen her undone, hunted. Barry would say that it had "rather spoiled the appetite, yes?" like he would say to Ch--

Like he used to say to the raptors. 

Owen sucks down another gulp of his ice water and tries to ask about Claire's nephews as tactfully as possible. Turns out, the caution is unnecessary. He could have been as blunt as possible; Claire's smile is desperately relieved when she obliges him. 

"They're better. I think they'll be good when school starts. I know Zach was hoping that this will stop--"

Maybe it's a tray that drops out of a clumsy waiter's hands. Maybe it's a delivery in the kitchen making a ruckus. He can't identify the crash or the source, even much, much later when his heart has slowed and his muscles have fully relaxed. All Owen knows in this moment is that something is making a hell of a noise too close to the two of them. Claire a latches onto his arm, hard and he hauls her bodily around to where he's suddenly standing amidst the shards of his water glass and their plates. They stand together, nearly back to back, close enough that he can't tell if he's shaking or if she is, and the other people are just staring, two dozen pairs of eyes feeling like two hundred with the weight of them. 

The host jogs over to them, because it's a nice enough joint that they're more worried about the customer than the broken plates. "Ms. Dearing, can I do--"

"Just--" Claire starts, too loud and angry-sounding. Owen turns in time to watch her visibly calm down, her mouth pinched tightly. "Please, just bring the check. I'm so sorry about this," she murmurs. The host titters his own apologies, but Claire is already past talking to him and focused on pulling herself the rest of the way together. Owen reaches out to right his chair, and realizes that he was the one shaking. 

He thumps back into his seat; she doesn't. 

Gently, carefully, she digs through her little leather purse to find her long leather wallet. Claire doesn't meet his eyes as she lays down three crisp fifties and touches his hand lightly where it rests on the table. 

Her fingers are trembling, too, but her voice is steady. "I'm sorry, Owen. This should cover it. I'm sorry, I just. I have to go." 

Owen just nods and lets himself watch her walk away, weaving through tables of gawkers. He had known, even if he hadn't wanted to admit it, that there was no way for a simple critter like himself to make it like he had. It wasn't the same old world he was living in now. It had changed, and he had changed with it. Owen carefully counts out another twenty dollars in crumpled fives from his own wallet, for a tip, before shoving the wad under one of the remaining plates and gathering his own things. 

Owen puts his head down to avoid the stares and charges toward the door almost blindly. _Evolve or die_ , he thinks almost hysterically, and flags down a cab to get him home again.


End file.
